


The Art of Romance

by ddagent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Dancing, Dinner, F/M, Kissing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: Romance novelist Jaime Lannister gives historical fiction writer Brienne Tarth a crash course in the art of romance, with both coming away with more than a first draft.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 110
Kudos: 364





	The Art of Romance

**Author's Note:**

> There was a post on tumblr linking to this tweet: "I want a rom-com about...a hypermasculine thriller writer who gets dropped by his publisher and decides to write a romance novel for 'fun' and then discovers how hard it is and has to be mentored by a romance novelist who takes her glasses off." The suggestion was to switch the genders, and I LOVED that idea, so here we are. I hope you enjoy!

> **CATELYN TULLY-STARK <catelyntullystark@stoneheartpress.com>**
> 
> **To BRIENNE TARTH <theblueknight@ravenmail.com>**
> 
> **SUBJECT: Jaime Lannister**
> 
> Brienne,
> 
> I just wanted to check-in and see how things were going with Jaime? I know he can be… _forthright_ in his opinions. If you have any pages you’d like to share, feel free to send them over.
> 
> Best wishes,
> 
> Catelyn

Brienne stared at her phone, unsure what to write back. When Brienne had been let go from Storm’s End Publishing House, her old friend and former creative writing tutor had suggested she use this as an opportunity to try new things. Her former editor had believed that women shouldn’t write alternative historical fiction. _You’d be much better as a romance novelist,_ he’d said. So, out of both spite and stubbornness, Brienne had opted to do just that. _It’ll be easy,_ she’d thought. _I’ll be done in a week._

It had not been easy. And three months later, all she had were six half-started chapters.

A morose email to Catelyn had led to an offer of a mentor. Jaime Lannister was Highgarden Press’ prize-winning romance novelist. He was something akin to the models they plastered on the front of his books: charming, handsome, far too good looking for real life. He was also arrogant and rude; nit-picking every sentence and challenging every decision. Their stream of back-and-forth emails had transitioned into daily coffee meetings, then lunches. Finally, seven months after they had been introduced, Brienne had actually completed a first draft.

If only it was any good.

> **BRIENNE TARTH <theblueknight@ravenmail.com>**
> 
> **To CATELYN TULLY-STARK <catelyntullystark@stoneheartpress.com>**
> 
> **SUBJECT: re. Jaime Lannister**
> 
> Catelyn,
> 
> Thank you for checking in. Unfortunately, I have yet to produce any pages that live up to Jaime Lannister’s standards. Maybe I should go back to writing alternative historical fiction and use a pseudonym. Do you think Brien Tarth is conspicuous enough?
> 
> Love to Ned and the kids,
> 
> Brienne.

She sent the email, then gathered her things and headed out the front door. After avoiding his messages all day, Brienne had finally agreed to an early evening coffee meeting with Jaime to re-strategise her novel. She’d tell him, then, that she wanted to pack the whole thing in. A shame, truly, as she had actually grown to _like_ Jaime Lannister. He could be funny, and kind, and his good looks were undoubtedly inspirational. Perhaps it was for the best that she drop this project now. Renly had been funny and kind and handsome, too. And he had not looked her in the eye as Randyll Tarly had let her go. 

As she left her apartment complex, however, Brienne found Jaime already waiting. Crisp white shirt, fresh black eye. Bouquet of sunflowers in hand. “Brienne.”

“Jaime. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to apologise for last night.” After days of radio silence, Brienne had confronted him at a literary awards dinner they were both attending. He had, albeit reluctantly, admitted her first draft was in poor shape. But when an old colleague from Storm’s End had made comments at her expense, Jaime had stepped in. He’d left the dinner with a black eye, and Connington a broken nose. “I should have imparted my feedback in a better way. Over email, or coffee. Not outside the ladies’ toilet.”

Brienne nodded. Yet, it had only been the second most humiliating thing that had occurred the night before. “And Connington?”

Jaime shrugged. “I’m not going to apologise for hitting him!”

His blasé attitude about punching a fellow author encouraged a laugh. Honestly, she would not seek an apology for that. If anyone deserved a broken nose, it was Ron Connington. “Okay. You’re forgiven. But you could have apologised at the coffee shop.”

“I _could_ , but that would rather defeat the object of today. After Connington’s comments last night, I realised why your work feels so—”

“—soulless?” It was the word he had used last night, after all.

Jaime winced. “ _Bland_. You have all the right tools but none of the experience to draw upon.”

Brienne offered a simple nod in agreement. She _had_ found it difficult to plot big romantic gestures and create men who didn’t trick susceptible women onto dates in order to win a bet. Alternative historical fiction was easy: there was research to draw upon, and her love of history to create a rich tapestry of a world gone by. But Brienne could not imagine a happy romance; someone who could love her for who she was and plan romantic evenings and speak sweet nothings. It was as alien to her as a razor was to Jaime’s face.

It really was a good thing she was giving up on this project. “Jaime, look—”

“—I’ve planned a romantic evening, Brienne. For research purposes. Dancing; dinner and cocktails. First step, bouquet of flowers.” He thrust the blooms into her arms. “You once said they were your favourites.”

Briefly, when they walked through a farmer’s market one Sunday months before. “They–they are.”

“Good.” He beamed. “Now, my Lady, shall we?” Just then, a black limousine pulled to the kerb. The driver left the front seat, tipped his cap briefly at Brienne, and opened the rear passenger door. Champagne, chocolate truffles, and two large boxes tied with blue ribbons sat upon the back seat. Jaime offered his hand. “I promise you an unforgettable night.”

Brienne stared, open-mouthed; unbelieving that Jaime had gone to so much trouble. For _her._ “I don’t know what to say.” _I can’t do this anymore. I’m not a romance writer. I’m not the kind of person built for love._ “This is far too much.”

“Not at all. I’m your romance mentor, remember? You learn by doing; so, let’s _do._ ”

Swallowing, Brienne slid her hand into Jaime’s and allowed him to lead her onto the back seat of the limousine. As the driver closed the door behind them, Jaime took the sunflowers from her hands and replaced them with a champagne flute. Grinning, he _clinked_ his glass against hers. “To good romance and good words.”

“To–to good romance and good words.”

Settling back against the black leather seat of the limousine, Brienne occupied herself by taking a sip of champagne. _None of this felt real._ Here she was, sitting with the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes upon, on what was essentially a _date. It’s just for research,_ she had to remind herself. _Maybe it’ll be inspirational. Maybe you’ll go home, the words will flow, and you won’t have let this novel beat you._ Satisfied with her decision, Brienne decided to embrace Jaime’s romantic research. She eagerly took the chocolate truffle he offered her; his eyes growing dark as she moaned at the sweet taste on her tongue. She sat, perhaps, closer than she should have, savouring the warmth of the man beside her. But it was all in the name of research.

As Jaime poured her a second glass, Brienne did have to ask. “Is this what you do with your real dates?

Something flashed in Jaime’s eyes, a slight crinkle at the corners, but the look faded quickly. “Honestly? I don’t really date. Between the family money and the writing success, it’s difficult to meet someone who’s motives I can’t question. The last date I was on ordered a six hundred dragon bottle of wine before we’d even sat down. I don’t mind romantic gestures; love them, in fact. But—”

“—you want them to be appreciated.”

Jaime nodded. “Limousines and champagne and exclusive tables can lose their novelty rather quickly.”

“Sometimes it’s the little things that mean more to a person.” Dropping by with food after a long day. Gifted a book they’ve always wanted to read. Remembering their coffee order and getting in an extra pastry when a paragraph just _wasn’t_ working. “You remember those just as much.” 

“Exactly. The first of tonight’s lessons, Brienne: don’t overdo the big gestures. The small ones can be just as meaningful.” He paused, and drained his glass of champagne. “Lesson two: a protagonist in a romance novel does _not_ go dancing in jeans and trainers.”

At that moment, Jaime presented Brienne with the two boxes so elegantly wrapped on the seat beside them. The first was a dress box from a retailer Brienne had only ever seen in magazines; never having _dared_ go inside. The dress was blue silk, and would likely expose her collarbone and the long length of her legs. The second box was a pair of high heels that matched the dress. In these, she would easily tower over Jaime. She meant to voice such concerns but found his hand already resting atop of hers.

“Lesson three: your love interest loves your protagonist for every reason other men have shunned her. If she’s taller than him, then he likes tall women. If she’s not supermodel pretty, then, _well,_ beauty is in the eye of the beholder. He loves her _because_ of these things, not despite them.” Still staring apprehensively at the fabric of the dress, Brienne jerked her head towards Jaime. She settled at his soft smile. “There’s a third box in the boot. Suit jacket and trousers. But it would be a crime of great proportions to hide those legs away.”

He had said the same thing at the literary awards when she had opted for a navy-blue jumpsuit. Pushing down her nerves, Brienne decided to go with the dress – in the name of research, of course. She knew what it felt like to wear a suit of armour; had conducted many a re-enactment in Dragon Age apparel. A dress and heels would only add to her sensory well to draw upon when she returned to her draft. So, when they arrived at the wine bar with a dance floor overlooking Blackwater Bay, Brienne was dressed like a typical romance novel protagonist.

It wasn’t… _unpleasant._ She would prefer the suit of armour, though.

“We have a table,” Jaime announced as they entered the bar; his arm looped through hers. Every eye in the place turned to look; the gorgeous golden lion and his giantess date. Brienne tried not to notice the hushed whispers and blatant stares as they passed. Not when Jaime held her so tightly. “More champagne? Or would you like something else to drink?”

“Champagne’s fine.” They settled at the table. Two flutes, a whole strawberry placed decoratively on the rim, were set in front of them. Brienne took a mental snapshot. “This place is beautiful.”

“It is. I’ve always wanted to come here.”

His tone was wistful, and Brienne took in her romance mentor. For a man with such a love and aptitude for romance, Jaime was quite the lonely figure. In the seven months of their acquaintance, he had been at her beck-and-call day and night. He wrote, exercised, and talked to her. No dates, no five-a-side in the park with friends. Dinner on Thursday nights with his brother. That was it. Jaime had once said he was estranged from the rest of his family; his father, editor-in-chief of non-fiction publisher Casterly Rock, had wanted him to carry on the family legacy. A career as a romance novelist was not expected, or accepted.

A shame. Despite the sharp edges, Jaime was made of love.

Brienne wanted to see more of that side of him tonight; more of his smile. So, as the band played a song she recognised, she offered him her hand. “You promised me dancing.”

He lifted his head; an eager smile forming across his features. “So, I did.”

They took to the floor. It would surprise many that Brienne was a competent dancer: years of fencing and athleticism meant she was quick for her size and knew where to put her feet. Tonight, however, she stumbled when Jaime slid his arm around her back, bringing their bodies close together. Her palm perspired as he held her hand as they swayed. As her own hand pressed to the firm line of his shoulders, thumb accidentally brushing the bare skin behind his collar, Jaime shivered and held her even tighter.

“Lesson number four: give them opportunities to touch each other. Dancing, cooking classes, pottery wheels. Get them close, get them close enough to fuck if there weren’t clothes in the way; people around.” They continued to sway; Brienne moving to the sensuous rhythm of Jaime’s voice rather than the band mere feet away. “Build the tension. You know how, in _The Vow,_ the Blue Knight is so close to getting her vengeance, but the brother escapes at the last minute? It’s like that. Build the tension, and take it away at the last moment.”

The song stopped. Jaime pulled away and joined the other dancers in their applause. Brienne put her hands together a few times, her feet unsteady. “You read my book.”

“I’ve read all your books. It’s why I know you can write, Brienne. You just need to be engaged in what you’re writing.” The band played another song, and Jaime once more swept her up into his arms. “Let’s try a different exercise. Your prose is excellent, but you need to _sell_ the characters. Make them desirable. Try and describe me as if you’re attracted to me.”

“ _Jaime._ ”

“I know you’ve got it in you.” He held her tight again, leaning up to brush his lips against the shell of her ear. “Describe me as if I’m all you want in this life, and the next.”

“I–I don’t know.” Her descriptions had always been concise; enough relevant information to paint a picture, but not enough to detract from the plot. But if her novel was going to succeed, she’d need to sell her love interest. Of course, no one was as handsome as Jaime. He was more beautiful than any imagined suitor. “Okay, _fine._ Your… _eyes._ They’re green.”

Jaime snorted. “Good observation.”

“ _Piss off._ ” That drew another laugh; Jaime throwing his head back; his eyes catching a glint of light. “Your eyes are the colour of wildfire.”

“A dangerous, flammable substance. Not very poetic.”

“No, no, it is. Your eyes are like wildfire. All consuming. You want to get close because they’re warm, but you’re afraid they’ll burn you from the inside out.” Brienne bit her bottom lip. “Your jaw is sharper than Valyrian steel. You’re half-man and half a god. Or maybe you’re the lovechild of the Maiden and the Warrior.” Her cheeks flushed in the stifling heat of the bar; as she expelled her attraction to Jaime in the form of adjectives and nouns. She longed to pull away, but Jaime held her fast. “I’m sorry; I’m terrible at this.”

“No, you’re not.” She lifted her gaze to find those wildfire eyes staring at her with that deceptive warmth. Too close, and she would get burned. Like Renly all over again. “Even I want to fuck me after that description.”

Brienne spluttered, Jaime grinned, and the tension fell away. As the current song drew to an end, Jaime checked his watch. “We should leave. Wouldn’t want to miss our dinner reservations.”

They left the bar with Jaime’s hand entwined with hers. _More research,_ she thought, as her heart hammered louder than the band’s drum set. She could now accurately describe how it felt for someone to hold her hand: the weight of another palm, the brush of a thumb across the sensitive inner skin of her wrist. Brienne was adding more and more to her romantic well, and she could only imagine the words she would produce when she finally returned to her apartment.

So, too, could she imagine the ache of seeing Jaime after tonight and knowing this love would only ever be given to her in the name of _research._

Contemplative, Brienne was quiet in the limousine ride to the restaurant. Jaime seemingly did not notice, as he was talking in great detail about the restaurant, and the seven-course tasting menu, and _do you have any allergies, you’re not a vegetarian are you, no you’re from Tarth at the very least you’re a pescatarian, Gods I hope you like this dinner, it should be fine, if not we can have a pizza in the limo afterwards._ He continued to babble through the evening traffic, through main streets and shortcuts, until the limousine pulled up to _Fosse à ours_. It was almost as if he was nervous.

“We’re here,” he said, as the driver opened the door for them. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you? Where did we land on that?”

“It’ll be fine, Jaime,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’ve been on _one_ dinner date, and he ate his chicken like a wild animal. Anything else is a step up.”

“Oh.” He smiled. “Good.”

They entered the restaurant with Jaime’s hand on the small of her back, and were led to a private table with a view of the old Red Keep in the distance. A flight of wines was brought out, as was the first course of a seven-course tasting menu. The sourdough bread with bone marrow butter was a surprising delight, and Brienne smiled as Jaime retrieved a small pad from his jacket pocket to scribble a few notes. The second course, pan-fried scallops with chorizo and a black pudding crumb, had Brienne’s mouth watering. The next four courses were _incredible_ : a vivacious salad with edible roses from the Reach, a lamb bon-bon with a mint dipping sauce, pigeon pie with a crown carved into the water crust pastry, and a refreshing lemon sorbet.

The final course was a chocolate fondant accompanied by homemade vanilla bean ice cream and fresh strawberries. But only one arrived. Jaime took his fork and cut through the dessert, offering the mouthful to Brienne. She raised her eyebrows, only for him to give his own challenging stare. Brienne then leant forward, lips wrapping around the fork, and scraped the gluttonous dessert away with her teeth. Jaime watched as she enjoyed the first mouthful.

“Lesson five, Brienne. Everything is about the senses. Taste.” Chocolate. Strawberries. “That’ll linger on your love interest’s lips later. Smell.” Saltwater from the Bay. Jaime’s cologne. “Sight. We’ve covered that already. Sound.” Soft notes from a violin echoed through the restaurant. Jaime’s measured breathing was all she could really hear. “Touch.” Jaime offered her the fork. “It creates quite the intoxicating picture.”

Their fingertips brushed as the fork exchanged hands. The tines bit into the soft dessert; heavy chocolate coating the silver. She offered a bite to Jaime. His eyes held hers as he licked the fork clean; tongue swiping away the last vestiges of chocolate from his mouth. Yet, a spot remained at the corner. Her thumb reached out to wipe it away. Jaime took her hand and held it against his face.

“Tonight has been incredible.” Brienne nodded. It had been the best night of her life. “I want to do this again.”

“For research?” It was the only reason she could think of. _Surely_ Jaime wouldn’t want to–would he?

Across the table from her, Jaime beamed. “These past seven months have been infuriating and intoxicating, and I find myself utterly beguiled by you. I want to show you what romance can be; what _love_ can be. If you’ll let me, for as long as you’ll have me. Let me be your romantic mentor full-time. Or, _boyfriend,_ as the kids are calling it these days.”

“As the kids are calling it?”

He barked out a laugh. “I don’t know; I haven’t had a serious girlfriend since my second novel was published. But I know how I feel. Every time I’ve tried to write over the past seven months, all I’ve pictured is you.”

“I’ve started to picture you, too.” Brienne caressed the line of Jaime’s jaw; her thumb brushing his bottom lip. “I was right. Your eyes are all-consuming.”

“And a man could happily drown in yours. Is that a yes, Brienne? Because I would truly love to move onto your last lesson of the evening: the perfect kiss.”

She gave a single nod. “Yes.”

Jaime did not lean over the table to kiss her. Instead, he rose from his seat and came around to her side. He cradled her face, thumbs brushing the flush forming across her freckled cheeks, before bending his head and covering her mouth with his. He explained with lips rather than words how to write the perfect kiss. Soft and gentle; a single kiss to her top lip, before sucking ever so slightly on the bottom. He waited for Brienne to deepen their kiss; one hand tightening around the nape of his neck, the other sliding through golden hair. They kissed until both of them were panting; until Jaime’s eyes were mere circles of black with a single wildfire ring.

“Every love story I’ve ever written was preparation for the day I met you.”

Her stomach somersaulted. “ _Jaime._ That was—I fear I’m not nearly as romantic as you.”

“You are. You just need to find the right story.”

\--

Twelve months later, Stoneheart Press published their first Brienne Tarth novel: _The King’s Road,_ a historical romance centred around the Blue Knight and Goldenhand the Just. Inside was a single dedication.

_To my knight, Jaime._

_Thank you for helping me find the right story._

_I am, as I have always been, yours._


End file.
